


Without You I'm nothing

by whyamidoingthisitswrongbutiloveit



Series: Happy Ending Guaranteed [25]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, M/M, Writing Exercise, charlie is the best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-22 01:50:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6066139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whyamidoingthisitswrongbutiloveit/pseuds/whyamidoingthisitswrongbutiloveit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just when Dean thought he'd bite through his lower lip, Castiel looked at him wide-eyed, utterly devastated, and added in a voice that carried his complete distrust in life and cooking shows in general, "Dean, it's no wonder we have notes of "Plastic foil not edible" all over the frozen food packages." Which was made worse since the adorable fucker used his fingers to actively air-quote, and Dean just about held back from jumping him and stealing a kiss. </p><p>That's when it all went to hell in a basket. Blue bow and all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Without You I'm nothing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zonya35](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zonya35/gifts), [Arvi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arvi/gifts), [midnightsun159](https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightsun159/gifts), [msarahv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/msarahv/gifts).



> Dean's POV of [ Without You](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5408345/). It makes sense on it's own, I guess. Haven't been able to write in weeks. 
> 
> All I'm saying is FUCK DEPRESSION.

"It's alright, Dean, it happens." Soft smile. "And for the record, I assure you I am not offended and you're still a healthy male."  
Chun-Hwa truly is a beautiful woman, inside and out. Kissing him on the cheek, she pulls her PJ-shirt over hear head, not bothering with a bra and gets up. Turning around, she slides her left hand behind her neck and flips out her trapped hair, a L'Oréal-commercial worthy movement.  
"Look, how about we make ourselves a cuppa and talk?"

That was mortifying. Or not. Dean is not so sure. Still, there is something magical in being stuffed into jeogori and baji, sitting on the floor, drinking tea and talk. Like. _Talk_.

Not getting it up happens to the best of men, too. Several times in their life, in fact, and it's a perfectly natural occurrence. And if he could, he really would ask Chun-Hwa for another date. But he can't.  
They get along great, she is feisty, makes him laugh and he hadn't really noticed how much time had passed until the waiter politely asked them to pay as his shift was over. Drinking the bitter tea, she slowly coaxed out what had gone sour in his life, and after a soft-spoken, "Oh, Dean, I am so sorry," there hadn't been too much to say, but the silence for once was not too oppressing. He said his thanks and she told him to keep his head above the water, and maybe try to talk to Castiel.

And it's horrifying, how much he is affected by the simple, burning truth of ' _you fucked up_ ' and ' _you never had a chanc_ e' and ' _be happy he hadn't pressed charges and chose to ignore you_ '. She had handed him a box of tissues without a word while he spoke.

  
After his messy, painful break-up, he had a short period of enjoying life to it's fullest; that is, hooking up with whoever thought him interesting enough for a few hours, and he loved it. It felt good to be wanted for a few hours, at least for a few weeks. He was upfront and told his partners that they're rebound material and most were okay with that. Those who weren't - well. No harm was done, nothing happened.

Enter Cas. They hit it off like fireworks and Dean had found an awesome friend after Castiel had warmed up to him. Movies, drinking, the occasional swearing at the telly (cooking shows), garage sales.  
Then, at a particularly bad episode of Hells Kitchen, Castiel lost it.  
"You're using too much lemon zest you unsophisticated culinary monster. Are you bli- LOOK, DEAN now he'll add the cinnamon, too, it's way too early!" And shortly after, "Put the damned butter _away_ _from the heat_ you assbutt, I would've finished these babies if I only had my left foot to do it by now!"  
Just when Dean thought he'd bite through his lower lip, Castiel looked at him wide-eyed, utterly devastated, and added in a voice that carried his complete distrust in life and cooking shows in general, "Dean, it's no wonder we have notes of "Plastic foil not edible" all over the frozen food packages." Which was made worse since the adorable fucker used his fingers to actively air-quote, and Dean just about held back from jumping him and stealing a kiss.

That's when it all went to hell in a basket. Blue bow and all.

Castiel being around had been a terrifying, yet beloved, experience ever since. It became even more so when Dean understood that while it had felt sudden, it had in retrospect been a gradual, unavoidable, development of caring deeper and deeper. On this day, Dean knew he was done for.

That particular eye-opening moment had been almost a year ago. Their friendship was thriving; but Dean felt dirty, as if he was taking advantage of Cas' friendship, hoping for some kind of miracle that could never happen.

Being hit on in the supermarket had happened before, and every time he had said, 'Thanks, but I'm taken' - no one needed to know it wasn't reciprocated, thankyouverymuch. But Chun-Hwa had something in her air that Dean hoped could fill up the void he felt, and before Cas he could've seen himself court her properly. But even the half-hearted attempt on kissing her naked shoulder had felt wrong, and it would've been cruel to continue. To both of them, but Dean felt entitled to think a little bit more to himself.

Castiel had spent so much time at Dean's that he had his own drawer (because, obviously, that's real manly friendship) in which he kept some sweatpants, boxers and shirts, and a toothbrush diligently dried after its use and never left next to Deans. Dean hoped Cas would forget, once, and he'd say _it's fine_ and maybe Cas would look at him and _see_ , and more often than not Dean woke up on the couch next to Cas, the entire length of their bodies just about touching. The soft light flickering from the silenced telly illuminating Cas' relaxed facial features like a technicolour storm, lashes throwing short-lived shadows over his nasal bone, full lips just about closed letting soft breaths escape - and Dean wondered how it would feel to feel to run his palm along Cas' cheeks, he was certain Cas' peachfuzz was soft to the touch and would tickle him if he could kiss that point where his pulse was strong, nuzzling into the crook of his neck and inhale.  
These were the nights Dean held his breath, not daring to move in fear of waking Cas and he knew full well he was crossing the line of acceptable social norms. Hitting rock-bottom, so to speak.

 

One Sunday morning, he did what he was sure was completely unacceptable in any context of friendship and definitively lower than rock-bottom. He had made pancakes and wanted to wake Cas up (grumpy little shit needed to be pacified with food and coffee immediately, and Dean ~~lo~~ \- adored him for it), and the blanket Cas usually draped around him like a cocoon had slid down, exposing Cas' t-shirt clad back. Sock-covered feet make no sound on a lush carpet and Dean knew he'd go to hell, but he knelt down and just once, one time only, rested his forehead between Cas' shoulder blades and breathed in the smell of home, his face burning with shame and self-hatred boiling over, but still, he couldn't stop. Few times he had noted Cas's fragrance and it was - was - _something_ , alright, a scent mix of lemon balm and earth-after-rain and something else and each time some instinct in him had screamed to wrap himself around Cas, mark him as his own, do _something_. A soft sound pulled him back into the now, and he felt Cas' breathing slowly changing, slowly stirring back to consciousness. He backed off immediately.  
Something inside him pulled into a tight ball with a lot of barbed spikes drilling into his sternum, solidifying the feeling of defeat when Cas turned around and looked at him, still drunk on sleep, face child-like in his openness, so near and never near enough. The only thought Dean was capable of was, "I want to see you every morning like this, Cas, be with me, please, I am yours," but instead he started teasing Cas of sleeping like the dead.

Dean, being a creeper, did it again. This time, he stroked Cas' hair from his forehead and when the other man turned his head in his sleep, it just happened that Deans palm brushed his cheeks and he felt as warm and soft and safe as Dean had imagined. In a fit of idiocy, Dean entwined his fingers into the relaxed hand on top of Castiels chest and memorised the feeling in the ensuing eternity of two seconds. This is all he could ever dream of having. Cas' hands aren't small, but they are of slender built and the most beautiful hands Dean has ever had the (stolen) pleasure of holding. Cas mumbles something, smacks his lips and turns to his left, turning his back to Dean and, this time, again, Dean fails.  
The short pleasure - still, a memory to behold - is quickly spoiled by the fact of Dean basically violating Cas' personal space and he is disgusted with himself. The tea-cup muffins he makes as a silent apology taste like shame to him.

 

 

It wasn’t a fight.

Not really.

Castiel asked Dean if he could stop by on his way to bring over the Bundt cake mould Dean had left on his last visit, and Dean, not expecting it to be the last time they see each other, said yup, but that he needed to be on his way shortly after.  
They left Dean's flat together and went their separate ways. Dean did not even turn around after saying his usual "See ya, Cas.", why would he say anthing else - who would guess it would be the last time he'd see the man; Cas only said that the next few days would be super busy.

Dean texts daily, stupid memes and about funny moments at work, and Cas replies quickly, but slowly the replies take longer and Cas never starts a chat. Cas must have found out and was letting Dean down in his own soft and kind way.

A month passes, and Dean has noticed a few things.  
He never got to take Cas out to the park in autumn. He was sure watching Castiel surrounded by the golden-red and yellow and orange spectrum of leaves would be like stabbing him again, Cas' eyes a contrast to the kaleidoscope of summer leaving. He had had planned on them feeding ducks, and maybe asking Cas out.  
He also notices that some people give him strange looks and that his shirts are loose and he needs to cinch his belt tighter by one, then two loops.  
He also cannot recall when he slept well for the last time. Maybe on the day he saw Cas last. He's got a nasty crick on his neck because he sleeps on the sofa, imagining he can still smell Home permeating from the upholstery and he hates sleeping on his stomach but it's the only way to access the scent.  
Food tastes like ash, but he dutifully eats on his lunch break after both Charlie and Bobby all but box his ears in for forgetting lunch four days in a row. Breakfast or dinner, he can't recall having eaten them in the past weeks.

Charlie invites herself in one Friday after work and he gets scolded like never before in his life, banned to the sofa with hot oatmeal while she throws out the trash, then he is commandeered into scrubbing the grime of the bathtub, toilet and sinks while she raids his poorly stocked pantry, typing away furiously on her phone what needs to be restocked. He wonders if the anger he sees in Charlie's eyes would have been ignited to a physical level; he had opened his mouth to tell her to bugger off but the ice-cold gaze she had directed at him had taught him three things in one second: _never_ mess with Charlie when she's angry, she was _this_ close to slapping sense into him so hard she'd bruise her hand, and he had hurt her because she does care for him.

The talk is tedious, and painful, and full of shame but Dean admits everything, even his immodest behaviour while Castiel was sleeping, feeling unclean and bad conscience colouring his cheeks.

Charlie listens. She only says one sentence, and it's "Oh Dean, honey, Thank God you're pretty because sometimes you are the dumbest bitch." and then it's only cooing sounds and ' _ssh, honey_  as Dean sobs his self-hatred accumulated in the past year out and chokes on words he wants to be able to say but never is good enough or quick enough to do so. He falls asleep and his last conscious thought is that she's not complaining about his weight but instead keeps him close and that the loves her.

 

 

"Rise and shine, bitch, we're going grocery shopping," Charlie's voice chirps through Deans groggy mind and he groans, turning around, but, "Also, you're talking to Castiel today or I will," certainly is the scariest sentence Dean has ever heard in his life and his pulse is on 180bpm instantly.

True to her word, Charlie uses him as a mule ( _stick, punishment_ ) for shopping, treats him to lunch ( _carrot, reward_ ) and after swiftly organising their bounty at Dean's flat, ushers Dean to shower and drives him over to Cas, the loving nemesis. She actually walks him to Cas' door and rings the damned bell, walking away backwards mouthing 'I'll keep watch, don't you dare walk away from this'. She turns the corner, only to whip back after a second, moving her left hand with outstretched pointer and middle finger from her eyes towards Dean and back in quick succession.

His pulse is a tangible trapped thing in his mouth, his hands are shaking and he's sure he's sweating like a construction worker on cold turkey, but he needs to man up and at least apologise, maybe be allowed to explain. He rings the bell again.  
Dean hears Ellie meow, and he remembers the lights were on, but there's no reaction to the second ringing. A few seconds later he can hear Ellie raising hell and pawing at the door. So Dean starts banging at the door, too afraid to open his mouth but sending silent prayers that Cas is okay and had fallen asleep on the couch, nothing else.

Bleary eyes peep through the crack of a half-opened door, Cas unshaven and disoriented. He's lost a bit of weight, too, and he looks paler, haggard. Had he been sick? Cas never gets sick, Bad weed grows tall and all, but he looks destroyed.  
Dean hates how his voice is cracked and sounds more like that of a frightened child, but he is frightened, and he asks if he can enter. Several emotions flit across Castiels face, one of them clearly a big bad NO but instead the shock of dark hair wiggles up and down in a quiet nod of consent and Dean immediately steps in, zoning in on Cas, afraid the other man will change his mind.  
Hah, the good way to ensure he does, cornering him like that. This time, when Cas turns his back on Dean, as they had done before his fuck up, when it was usually Dean locking the door when he came over before, Dean forgoes locking up and instead wraps his arms around Cas as tight as he dares, and it just so happens that his nose brushes at Cas' jaw, really, it's not done with intent, but he inhales deeply and all the pain goes away for a fraction of a moment until he registers Cas' sharp intake of air and something of a sound that is really close to a wounded animal.

Holding Cas for the first and very likely last time, Dean apologises, promising to change whatever need be to remain in Castiels life.

Cas exhale is a stuttering breath, and his tone is without inflexion when he tells Dean they cannot remain friends.

Dean feels like the air has been punched out of his lungs, and just before he starts begging, Cas continues, "Not since that one morning you made pancakes, Dean. Perhaps it never was possible, but I had hoped for the best and was ready to live with the available option at least."

Shame and anger at himself make Dean grabby, and he does not know whether he is clutching at Cas' stupid Goofy shirt or if it is indeed Cas' hand holding onto his hand as if his life depends on it and keeps them pressed together, but between sobs Dean somehow manages to choke out a few words. That he knows it was wrong, and he swears he only did it twice and he won't ever do it again, he only wanted to know, to have something to hang on to. Cas turns around and the frown does look a lot less like anger and more like pure confusion and something else Dean would love to be hope but knows is not and he's about to bolt when the _something-else_ in Cas' expression takes over and delicate, hopeful, understanding relaxes his features.

"Dean," Cas breathes, and doesn't let go, instead slides his fingers between Deans while he locks the door and guides Dean to the kitchen. He turns on the electric kettle and it takes a _very_ long time to make tea one-handed, but neither of them notices it because.

Because.

Well, because the warm weight of another hand is _there_ and to Dean that is more than he had dared to dream of and Castiel does not mind so Dean decides it's best to keep his mouth shut and absorb every second he is allowed to witness. He decides in this moment that the warmth permeating from Cas' hand at finally, almost, the best.feeling.ever and crap did he just manage to somehow hold hands with Cas and he should so not be sniffling and it is ridiculous how the mismatched cushions on Cas' fourth-hand-couch feel like home, like a place he always has belonged. Ellie wedges herself between them and purrs, obviously proud of having done her self-proclaimed deed of utmost import (the second pair of hands for scratching definitively was motivational enough).

For perhaps the first time in his life, Dean Winchester opens his mouth and talks instead of choking on his words. The words tumble around, and some might not even make sense, but Dean manages a, "I need you," only to add a whispered "Without you I'm nothing" with a barely audible voice. The hand on his shoulder is heavy and grounding and slides along his neck up to his jaw, gently cupping it and pushing his head up until Cas' piercing blue eyes bore into his own and Cas replies with a chaste touch of lips.

This talk is the most intimate of all, and Dean feels stripped naked to his very soul, but after finally falling asleep next to Castiel with full and enthusiastic consent given by a, at least at first, delicate touch of lips that rather quickly turned messy and dirty in a good way into a full-blown kissing escapade and almost-wandering hands, Dean has found home and wakes with a smile uplifting his mouth's corners.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos appreciated. not asking for attention (not really), but if someone could tell me whether writing is something I should continue, I'd be really grateful :)


End file.
